


Lark in the Fog

by Dedicate Kiwicrocus (cranky__crocus)



Category: Emelan - Pierce
Genre: F/F, Fear, Fog, dance, previous life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Dedicate%20Kiwicrocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lark has a terrible fear of the fog. She is reminded of this for the first time and wonders where it came from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fog on the Winding Circle Road

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at random when I was at my high school, which is set up somewhat like a bowl and collects fog. I imagined Lark and Rosethorn's reaction to fog and surprised myself with what I conceived...so I wrote it down!

“Rosethorn? We're out of milk; I need some for dinner. Shall I head to the hub for it?” Lark, a newly dedicated Earth Dedicate, questioned the lonely cottage. She sighed as she heard no response. Rosethorn—the thorny Earth Dedicate who had by some miracle taken Lark under her wing—must have slipped out while Lark had been working. She didn't really _want_ to go, but they did need it for dinner…

She would go; in honor of Rosethorn's unexplained kindness, she would go. It was a chilly day; Lark tightened the belt of her habit for added warmth, grabbed the food basket and pushed her other hand in her pocket.

Lark was struck by ferociously cold wind as she stepped out of Discipline. She swayed as she walked the front path and onto the Winding Road. The wind vanished as quickly as it had come; a shiver ran rampant across the woman's skin. She tightened her habit's hold of her and continued, scolding herself for being flighty.

The stillness frightened her. She'd faced all assortments of weather in her travels and must have experienced something similar at one point; if only she could remember…

The trees stood still against the quickly-darkening sky. It wasn't _that_ close to evening. The stillness of it all bothered her; it made her feel utterly alone and secluded. Everything looked as though it _should_ have been moving but was absolutely frozen. All of it was too surreal.

I can do this, Lark reminded herself. I'm not some young adolescent to turn tail at the scent of a storm. It won't be here for some time.

Even with those thoughts, Lark felt the fear curl around her abdomen. She was an adult; she could do this. With a deep breath she noticed that the Hub was fast approaching. There: it wasn't that bad, was it? All she had to do was keep her composure. She fixed her dignity and confidence in check before stepping into the Hub.

Lark was immediately relieved by the hustle and bustle around the center. The thread mage nearly cried at the surge of comfort when a novice rudely bumped her shoulder and jostled her back. Lark smiled and made her way toward the kitchen.

 

 

Lark emerged from the kitchen two hours later wearing a goofy grin and a habit with white powder stains. She had so thoroughly enjoyed the activity and social setting that she had volunteered her time helping Dedicate Gorse bake fresh bread, rolls and dessert. That man had a kind mouth and an even kinder ear.

At last it was time to leave the place of comfort and commence the journey home. The air was warmer than before and drizzling slightly, but that was of little importance to a now-content Lark. She was joyous enough to round a cartwheel, but refrained for the sake of her breathing.

A peculiar thing occurred halfway to Discipline: Lark began to notice limitations in her ordinarily acute vision. Everything was becoming misty and distant items were disappearing behind a curtain of white…

Fog.

Lark panicked; she remembered fog. The diminished vision put her in such a fright that she lost her common sense and composure. What should she do? Where should she go?

In all of a few minutes she could see only the distance she could throw a rock with her strong arm. The edges of her vision revealed the white cloud of curtains. She was lost in clouds.

Lark’s head spun as her stomach heaved in fear; even her knees grew weak. In her mind the world was limited to her small field of vision: she was completely alone. Her irrational thoughts told her, screamed at her, that she would be lost here forever; she would _die_ here alone.

That thought brought her hard to her knees. She ignored the food supplies spilling around her as she lay clutching her stomach.

“Rosethorn!” she called into the smothering air. Tears caught on her lashes and stained her cheeks. She felt her rationality and sense of time disperse. “Yazmin! Yazmin?”

She called and yelled until her voice was hoarse and painful to her ears; she was reduced to whimpering. “Help me? Someone?”

The time she spent curled up in the dirt was unknown to Lark. It seemed an eternity, the time she spent crying, shivering and scratching at her stomach. She had given up on calling out: who would find her here, anyway? She was so very far away…

Movement caught her eye but she did not alter her activities or position; she no longer trusted her eyes, not with this ostracizing fog. When she felt heat at her back she thought it was a hallucination, another level to the madness the fog had reduced her to.

None of it was real. The only reality she knew was that she was utterly, completely lost and alone and forgotten…

"Lark, come back to me," a voice pleaded. There was steel to the voice gave it strength despite the worry and concern. Maybe it was vaguely familiar…

Something pulled at her. The thing that bothered Lark was that it wasn't physical: she felt odd snake-like tentacles diving deep into her and wrapping around anything they could; they were pulling, these… these…

Vines! Lark felt the snap of recognition as she recognized the voice as Rosethorn's softened tone, the vines as her earth magic and the warmth due to physical proximity. Lark's head spun. Someone had found her; she wasn't alone; she'd _live_.

“That's it,” Rosethorn coaxed. She must have noticed the slight calming in Lark's actions and the relaxation of her shoulders; she would be all right. Lark sobbed out her relief and gratitude.

When her thoughts gained some normality she considered how much Rosethorn was kicking herself for the softness in her voice.

Rosethorn offered a quick, tight squeeze and started to help Lark up. “Let's get you and this food home.”

Lark was shaky as she pushed off the ground. She was damp; she hadn't noticed before. As she stepped up off her knees she thought she might fall but Rosethorn was there to help her.

“Lean on me until you can stand by yourself. I'm going to gather up these goods.” Rosethorn bent down but was sure to offer her back as support while organizing the food back into the basket. She glanced up but remained folded over. “You prepared to start walking?”

Lark was unsure of the strength of her voice and tested it. “Yes, I can walk.”

Rosethorn nodded and rose with the basket. Lark took two steps backwards and stood, barely wavering, to prove to herself as much as to Rosethorn that she could. Her companion smiled with what seemed oddly like pride and waited for Lark to take the first few steps.

The pace was sluggish and uneven with Lark’s faintness but they were at least walking. A few paces down the road, Rosethorn looked at Lark in a way that made it clear she wanted to ask a question but didn't wish to pry. Lark was flattered: with most people Rosethorn would have asked without consideration of comfort.

“Mmm?” Lark murmured.

The plant mage parted her lips, hesitated and asked as respectfully as she could muster, “What happened? Why were you so afraid?”

Lark looked to the ground and away from the fog, composing her thoughts and an answer. After a moment she began to answer. “I fear fog. It harms my thoughts, not being able to see in the distance; I can’t grasp where I am or my connections. I end up feeling…alone and lost.” She paused and exhaled heavily. “I was convinced I was going to die.”

Rosethorn thought of nothing to respond and instead walked closer to Lark, taking her hand and squeeze it reassuringly. “I'm glad I found you.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Lark breathed as she squeezed the hand back and let go. She couldn't help noticing, upon looking at Rosethorn, that the woman was smiling. Lark cocked a brow and inquired, “Why are you smiling?”

“I enjoy the fog,” Rosethorn stated, uncharacteristically enthusiastic; she smiled at this. “Reminds me of the better parts of home. It could inspire me to dance. I feel as though my head is in the clouds—since it is. No one to inspect and judge: I'm free to be a little eccentric without straining the persona I create for myself. Put simply, I'm free to…dance as if no one's looking. And thank Mila for that, too; I’ve two left feet.”

Lark laughed as the words settled in; Rosethorn would hardly use the phrase any other time. How to entirely different perspectives could exist... She had never considered it that way. The fear remained within, but loosened. Her shoulders sagged without the rigidity of fear; she caught herself and straightened using her own reserves of strength.

Rosethorn's delight contagious but Lark couldn't fathom her mood rising considerably, not in the fog. Still, she had to admit it felt safer.

Lark blinked twice and stared. Had Rosethorn done a twirl? It was an action so atypical that Lark’s mind could hardly comprehend it. Rosethorn cackled at the expression.

“Oh, don't act so shocked! I'm not _only_ the thorny sharp-tongued woman you know now. You knew that already, though, didn't you?”

Lark nodded: she had. It drew her to Rosethorn. The thorn was predominant but when the rose arrived, it was the sweetest thing to behold. Occasionally Lark found only rose, but tended to prefer the combination. If one came entirely without the other, something was generally wrong.

“I've never been a dancer and didn't grow up with them, but care for a dance?”

Lark took a few more steps and gazed back, puzzled. Should she dance with Rosethorn? Lark was known here as a woman-lover—she had been since her short stay here years ago during the start of her sickness. She also knew she had been developing feelings for Rosethorn for years—the monthly visits charitably taken to the Mire were always noted with great interest, although Rosethorn wasn’t aware.

“Sure,” she finally answered. She enjoyed dancing; it was one of the many things she used to do with Yazmin. It would also be nice, admittedly, to dance with Rosethorn. Lark held back a sigh. She almost preferred her mind in the mist—at least it wasn't so analytical there. Where had her spontaneity gone?

Rosethorn approached. With a deep breath, Lark gathered the threads of courage around her. She grasped the woman's hand and dipped her back; Rosethorn smiled fully and laughed.

“Lark! You can _dance_! I learned some at Lightsbridge, but I can tell you've got more skill than our daft instructor himself possessed,” she remarked excitedly, her features bright. Lark grinned and twirled Rosethorn out and back in again. This side of Rosethorn was youthful and delighted—free, it seemed, of long hard times and the need for a rock-solid walls for personal protection.

“I used to do a lot of dancing with an old flame,” Lark explained simply. She felt the pinprick of pain that came with the memory—she had lost Yazmin when she had lost her career and lifestyle—but let the feelings go. This was another new time in her life beyond the tumbling and beyond the Mire; she would face it as such.

“Well, then, I'll have to make it a point to dance with you more often…in case some of it rubs off,” Rosethorn commented, half satirical. She blushed softly at the possible interpretation and quickly added, “because of your skill.”

Lark smiled and nodded. She would never embarrass Rosethorn by pointing out that her addition didn't help. It wasn't a subject Rosethorn was used to speaking on. Lark considered her fears of growing too attached to Rosethorn but allowed those fears to disperse as well.

“Shall we dance?” Lark requested with her most charming smile; she was relieved to have found much of her strength. Rosethorn grinned and took Lark's offered hand as she began to hum a song one of the travelling musicians taught her troupe.

The two danced the remaining distance to Discipline. Rosethorn then pardoned herself to fetch the desert plants she had outside before the rains came.

Recognizing her solitude, Lark left to meditate with a curtain drawn around her bed for support. The dancing had been a joy in the end but she was still daunted by the residue of the prior experience and her enhanced level of fear.

When and where had _that_ started?


	2. Escaping the Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a year or two after the first chapter randomly at my friend's house. Writing something this dark really made me happy in the end. Perhaps because I just adored writing Rosethorn.

The Mire was a crummy place to be, a crummier place to live. Whenever solitude overtook her, Miha found tears at her eyes. Her life was over: what was she without tumbling?

The woman looked down at her fine-tuned, fit body. It was the perfect instrument for performing wild and impressive feats; it could bend in almost any way she requested. What good was that now, if her lungs could not follow and provide her with adequate air? What was the point at all?

Miha heard the sound of a wheel catching on a rock. She knew the road well enough in her head: after the rock the wheel would fall into ditch of mud; thereafter the road became softer and squelchy. As usual, rain was falling on the Mire.

She pulled her street clothes around her and wiped the tears from her eyes. She would not acknowledge her clothes growing soiled. The corner of her trousers caught in the door. When the woman looked down, her eyebrows shot up.

Her clothes were crying. That was the only thing she could conclude. Somehow, in the same way that she had been crying tears, her clothing was crying dirt. She had never known clothing to clean itself in such a way.

Her second deduction was that she was merely going mad; it was the status quo of the Mire, was it not? It would simply mean she was joining her caste-mates in a steady decimation of the mind. With a groan at her own morbidity, she hurried out of the meager rat-infested hall and didn't look back.

The cart outside was one that came monthly from the Temple. Miha stepped behind a pillar by the entrance of the main building and watched the activities around the wooden carrier. As usual, a head of chestnut hair bobbed from the back of the cart.

The green-appareled woman did not seem put off by the filth and mud; she barely shivered in the chilly rain. Miha rested her tangled curls against the post and watched the woman she had come to appreciate. The woman always brought new medicines and did strange things to the ones they already had—something with magic that Miha didn't understand, having little knowledge of magic or mages.

This woman wasn't necessarily a nice woman; it wasn't that that drew Miha. It was how egalitarian the younger—Miha assumed younger—female was. Where she might snap at the poorer inhabitants, she would not hesitate to holler or glare at her higher-classed acquaintances, either. She did not discriminate use her sharp tongue; it was a respectable trait. She was also incredibly kind when she thought no one was looking. Unfortunately for her, Miha always was.

Still, Miha did not dare step from behind her pillar; it was something she had never done and never intended to do. She was filth in her own eyes—why would she subject herself to the humiliation of stepping before someone she would once have been nigh equal with? Now she was the feces on the woman's muddied shoes.

Miha bit her lip and turned to press her back against the hard pillar. She watched the main entrance, where soiled men and crude women were spewing remarks no child was fit to hear. This would never be Miha's home. Stench was not her normal, happy reality.

“Rosethorn, he e'nt lettin' us through the door,” one of the younger visitors called. He was pointing at one of the rowdiest Mirelings there was; the man was standing in the path in a drunken stupor and slurring incoherent phrases.

The chestnut-haired woman—Rosethorn! that was it—thumped the boy lightly on top of his dark head.  “Don’t you go jumping back into bad habits. Words have more letters than that—_say _them.” The boy blushed and nodded; she stormed to the door and placed her fists on her hips. She looked down at the man—he was taller than she, but he perpetually stooped.

“Do you like plants, boy?” she snapped at him. Miha smiled at the disrespect and condescension in Rosethorn's voice and words. It wasn't because the man was poor or even a drunk: it was because he was being a ruddy rude tosspot.

He looked up and sneered. “E'nt matter. Plants e'nt gonna hurt me, en't scary.”

“Is that so?” the woman challenged. A horrible bark flew forth from her lips. “That's a very unfortunate belief—most unfortunate in how incredibly _misinformed_.”

As she spoke, vines from the Urda’s House front-facing wall snaked forward and wrapped around his ankles. He looked down, aghast, and jerked his head back up to gaze at the woman fearfully.

“S-sorry! Ya c'n get on in!” he called. It wasn't satisfactory to Rosethorn. She hitched her chin and the man flew to the building, landing upside down against the wall, soon to be enveloped by vines.

“You just hang until you’ve considered the consequences, then, hmm?” Rosethorn remarked in a cold voice. “And don't you ever block this door from me again: I have solutions worse than vines for the sad occasion people decide to cross me a second time.”

The man blinked and didn't even bother to attempt movement. Miha smiled and laughed: for once, the man's world was as crooked as he was.

Rosethorn turned to discern if anyone had witnessed the events. As Miha was now leaning _toward_ the entrance, she was no longer hidden at all. The plant mage looked her up and down with a piercingly intelligent gaze and then, having heard the laughter and seen the dregs of a righteous smile on Miha's features, appeared to hold a small grin of her own.

She then turned and entered the building, urging her young assistant to pick up the supplies.

Miha blushed and held her stomach. Someone important had seen her in an outfit of such filth. When she looked down once more, she realized to her own astonishment that she wore no filth on her accoutrements: they hung well and fit her as they had in her tumbling days. Only her skin housed the ever-present dirt of the Mire, for it was impossible to scrub that away.

She ran as the confusion set in. Everything was too much. What in the Mire's foul scent was going on?

Miha was behind the main building of the Mire in no time, breathing hard in great gasps; she couldn't get enough air. As her head grew dizzier and her mouth drier, she reached into her pocket and retrieved a yellow veil. She held it close to her heaving chest.

Somehow, she kept herself walking through the squalid streets of the backward end of the Mire. Everyone looked her up and down, eyeing her now-pristine clothing. It was a curse in the Mire to have clean clothing. Why did that have to happen? _How_ did it happen?

At the end of a dark passageway a man stopped with a hand on her chest. She gently removed it, still attempting to draw as much air into her lungs as she could; it wasn't working well.

“Lil’ sweetie,” he cooed in a haughty manner, “Lil’ sweets with clean rags ‘n heavy chest. What’s yer like doin' round these parts, _hmm_?”

He stressed the last sound and glared at Miha. She closed her eyes and looked down. “I'm going…to work…”

The man laughed out loud, barking and mean. That was not the sort of thing someone was supposed to say at the Mire: few people had jobs; the ones who did shut up about it, so they wouldn't get beat for having something the others didn't. Miha had forgotten. This uncivilized place was not _her_ place.

“Shouldn' be wandrin' 'roun here all fancy 'n ready fer work,” he told her. His hand wandered back to her chest. “Not totin' such a fine instram’nt as yers here.”

Miha opened her eyes and tried to step back; the man caught her wrist.

“Now now, don'chyeh try runnin’ fro’me, twig.” He grabbed the yellow veil from her hand and laughed. “Ah. One a _them_. What they do, kick ya out? Didn' spread yer legs 'nough?”

His laughter haunted her. The man pushed her into the small bordering alley and blocked her path out. Behind her she felt tall boxes. She was trapped in a wet puddle of filth from the rain.

“Why don'chyeh jus’ look a lil' wet runt-cat,” he mocked as he circled the veil around in the air. “I know whatchya blast yas-ke-da-su _really_ perform.”

He reached forward and ripped her shirt from her body; she cried out in pain, almost mourning the threads themselves. It was her one true outfit from her tumbling days. It was her connection to her old life. It was dying.

“Nice'n pert, eh, the way I like ‘em,” the man taunted as he grabbed for her chest and ripped her loose-flowing trousers down. She bit him, but he only laughed and tore his own down too.

Miha closed her eyes tight and forced herself to leave her body: she didn't want to be connected to it any further. No good could come from living in the Mire, no good at all. She couldn't even scream: she didn’t have the breath.

 

 

The rain had lessened by the time she awoke. She didn't recall falling asleep, but as soon as Miha was conscious she regretted waking at all; she throbbed down below from every entrance she knew and her throat was sore.

She cried to think that she was thankful her ears hadn't been used. If men were anatomically equipped with what their soul deserved, they would have been no wider than toothpicks.

Miha gazed up from her slumped position to see women of the alley looking at her the way confused alley cats would. She pulled up her trousers and wrapped her ripped shirt around her front, tying it behind her back. Without a word, she searched around in the disgusting puddle until she felt the familiar cloth of her veil.

She plucked it up and whipped it through the air, uncaring of the mud flung everywhere—mud was nothing new to any single area or inhabitant of the Mire.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” she greeted her crowd. She didn't acknowledge the tears hanging from her lashes. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

With that, Miha was running again. They watched her go without speech. How could they speak, when the same was not uncommon to them? Their age was their one saving grace—the men weren't normally interested in sagging chests when they could find a younger plug like her.

The air was growing thick; nothing looked familiar. This was fog, she knew, but it was dark and dirty. She could never see much in the Mire at all, but when fog came into play…

She screamed.

“Yazmin!” she hollered uselessly, gazing up and down every alleyway. She had to find her way home. She couldn't live here anymore; she couldn't be here after so many months. How long?

Men and women leered at her. Children tried to tug at her trousers, but she moved on. Her breathing was in vain. When at last she fell from pure heaving exhaustion, she was nowhere closer to a landmark she recognized. She was in the middle of what appeared to be a wide Mire street halfway in another dirty puddle.

This was not a life: this was the Trader's hell. This had to be her repentance and not a life at all.

Miha looked up to the sky and saw nothing. She was living in a grimy dome of revolting air. What could she see? Even in clear daylight, what could she see for her life? What could she make?

She screamed once more and curled up in a ball. If her coughing disease hadn’t already wrecked her breathing, her panic would have.

She was going to die alone, one of these days, either in her small empty room or in one of the filthy dark back streets. There was no such thing as love. Even light was just a common misconception shared by the privileged world.

Miha cried. She could live beyond her disease, but she couldn’t escape the telling traces of fog: she could never leave this place. In this moment, she could see what was keeping her here—the dirty fog she could not press through. Even when it was not visible, she knew it was always there, forming an invisible wall that barred her escape.

Nothing mattered anymore. She was alone, abused and ready for the end: she damned the poor for having no money for carts to pass by: there was nothing to hit her save the filth flying from the windows.

“Stop!” a voice called from somewhere not too far off. Miha turned her face to see the blurry shape of a cart. How could there be a cart in the Mire? No one had money for shoes, let alone a horse and carriage.

A woman jumped from the cart and ran down the mud-drenched street. “There's someone here!” she barked over her shoulder. Miha almost smiled: it was Rosethorn.

Her smile turned bitter—this was her death. She could never be more humiliated.

“Get her in the cart,” Rosethorn demanded. “No, you'll drop her, you dolt of a boy. Help me get her in.”

Strong arms wrapped around Miha's frail form. Rosethorn did not seem put off by the stench that seemed to surround Miha; she was lifted from the street and carried a short distance to the cart she seen earlier that day.

Her breathing was next to impossible and her shivering nearly cost her a lip.

“She's too cold and I don't think she's getting much air,” Rosethorn informed her younger colleague. “We need to bring her back to Winding Circle with us. I think she's the tumbler we had months back.”

The boy nodded curtly and helped her settle Miha into the cart.

“Drive,” Rosethorn commanded. The adolescent jumped to the front seat and took the reins. Rosethorn settled herself in back with the rest of the material and took a blanket from the nearest corner; she spread it over Miha. “We'll get you back to Winding Circle. You'll be fine.”

Rosethorn's voice wasn't particularly soft, but it comforted Miha to no end. She was sick of how everyone of each caste level treated her these days; Rosethorn was refreshing.

“I…thank…” Miha managed, but couldn't continue for a fit of coughing. She felt a sturdy hand on her back patting and rubbing.

Others would have responded with words, but Rosethorn didn't seem that sort of woman: she gave Miha a squeeze on the shoulder and sat watching over her.

 

 

Miha reclined in the clean sheets of the infirmary; she hadn't witnessed such cleanliness since the last time she had been in Winding Circle. The light that filtered through these windows seemed purer than the sunlight that seldom touched the Mire.

Voices sounded from an office in the corner but she barely offered her attention. She was much more content to bask in the comfort that such a place gave. This could be a home to her like no other place could, now. It was horrible to think that she would soon be delivered back to the Mire—so she didn't think about it.

Her name was mentioned a few times by the voices in the office. Someone was talking about magic, but it didn't make any sense to Miha. It wasn't that she wasn't bright; this was just entirely new.

She observed the sheets and drew her fingers over them: spirals and pictures formed in the wake of her movements. She smiled to find it was a picture of Rosethorn, drawn in the wrinkles of a clean white canvas of cloth.

“That seems eerily accurate,” Rosethorn commented as she finished her walk to the bed. “I never thought I'd see myself in the sheets in such a manner.”

Miha laughed and spread her hand over the cloth. It seemed to flatten before she even touched it, but she ignored that too.

“They're right, then,” the plant mage said, as much to herself as Miha. “You have ambient magic.”

It took Miha a moment to realize that the last statement was to her, and that Rosethorn was standing over her expectant of an answer. Was she missing something?

“Ambient magic?” Miha questioned, looking down at the blanket. She couldn't remember feeling so dimwitted in civilized company in a long time.

“We can explain and get into that later. You have a special ability with cloth and thread—a 'stitch witch,' so to say." Rosethorn paused and sat on the bed. Her back remained naturally stiff as she turned to Miha. “The important part is that you are invited to stay at Winding Circle to complete your novitiate. Is that something you that interests you?”

Miha gazed on, speechless. Was Rosethorn not a singing cherub? She had to be a messenger of the gods.

“It would be more than I could ever hope for.”

A strange smile overtook Rosethorn's features. “Then don't waste your time hoping and we'll get you working on some real mind fodder.”

Once more the woman paused, crossing her arms over her chest. “We won't have you stay with the other novices—they're all younger and would drive you out of your skin. We decided it was best to re-open Discipline Cottage. We use that for students who don’t fit the regular novitiate dorms. Would a smaller cottage suit you?”

Miha nodded. “The Mire is like staying with impish teenagers, I think: too many hormones coupled with too many substances and too little conscience.”

Rosethorn laughed. It was a beautiful sound.

“I think we'll get along just fine,” she remarked as she patted the bed and stood. She turned to look at Miha once more. “I'll be staying with you at Discipline; I thought that would work best. I know all about being the black sheep in the herd.”

The ex-tumbler smiled. “I think I'm more of a black bird in the flock.”

She received a peculiar look from the Dedicate. “A bird, hmm? You should remember that in the upcoming years; I'm rather fond of birds.”

With that, Rosethorn left the infirmary.

Miha was given new clothing and led to the Hub. She was warm, full, clean and sheltered. She felt safer than she had in her entire life—even during her tumbling years.

When she walked out of the Hub toward Discipline Cottage, she looked around and felt no invisible fog pressing down on her. She was a free bird. A free bird who had found her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
